Not a performance. Not a moment clipped into something shareable. A real date.
Her heart pounded hard.
Fine.
She would just say it.
She would.
She would turn to him the second they were off the steps, look him in the eye, and?—
They reached the bottom. And were immediately surrounded.
Voices. Movement. People pressing in, smiling, talking, congratulating, asking questions she didn’t hear because her attention had narrowed to Finn.
He didn’t let go of her hand. If anything, his grip shifted, drawing her closer, angling his body so she was slightly behind him, tucked into his side like that was where she belonged.
She liked this. Too much. The steady presence of him. The quiet, unspoken protection in the way he moved, the way he held her without making it a thing.
She leaned into it before she could stop herself. Let herself be guided. Let herself be kept.
Her other hand twitched toward her phone. She should be recording this. This was content. This was exactly the kind of thing her followers?—
No, this was hers.
Not for the camera. Not for the comments. Not for anyone else to pick apart and replay and claim.
Just hers.
She left her phone where it was. Let the moment exist without trying to capture it.
Finn shifted beside her, closer still. Then he leaned down, his mouth near her ear, his voice low enough that it didn’t belong to anyone else.
"Do you want to get out of here? "
"Yes, " she said.
Or maybe she only thought it. Because before she could move, before she could turn, someone shouted, “Give us a kiss!”
The shout cut through the crowd, followed by others. Laughter. Cheers. The sudden, electric shift of attention. Cameras lifted. Lights angled.
Finn looked at her. Not composed. Not controlled. Caught. Like a deer in headlights.
Ivy didn’t think. That was the problem. Or maybe the answer. Because the want that had been building all afternoon, all day, longer than that—it surged, fast and overwhelming, washing out everything else.
She wasn’t sure who moved first. Later, she would tell herself it had been her. But in that moment, she did not care. Because Finn's lips were on hers. And hers were on his.
Both of them. Both of his lips. As she'd predicted, the balance of them, the fullness she had noticed and couldn’t forget, completely overwhelmed her.
There was no easing into it, no gentle question. His mouth took over hers, and she let him.
More than that. She leaned into it. Wanted it.
The world narrowed to the point of contact, to the press of his lips, the warmth of him, the solid, grounding presence of his body close to hers.
He tasted like the kitchen. Like tomato and salt and something earthy and real and entirely him.
Savory.
